


Trouble is a Friend

by ab2fsycho



Series: Revolve [22]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT, Good luck kids, M/M, also escape, read it and weep, thats important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 05:38:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5322509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ab2fsycho/pseuds/ab2fsycho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The operation to rescue one Hershel Layton from Targent is underway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trouble is a Friend

Through the ventilation went one, up the wall went another. The third party entered as if nothing was wrong, and in a snap all four were inside without a single member of Targent or the Family suspecting foul play.

Descole found his path easily among the great metal rafters. He deviated between crawling and balancing on his own two feet. Whichever kept him out of sight of those patrolling catwalks and the like. There weren’t as many as he had suspected, but he also suspected there to be more hidden in the wings he couldn’t see. Glancing to the area where Flora and Raymond were to have entered, he recognized the two in Targent clothing only because of the shape of the glasses Flora was wearing. Otherwise, her hair was tucked and her jaw set. Back straight and walking with a confidence that mirrored Raymond’s, she fit in perfectly.

He scoured his area, finding nothing that could lead him to Layton or any other prisoners for that matter. Crouching low on one of the rafters, he watched found Flora and Raymond once again as they blended into the traffic of Targent from above. One looked up at him, shaking their head in indication that they’d found nothing either. He listened to small conversations, looking for something he could use. He had suspicions of where Layton was held, and was waiting for confirmation of some form. He was also waiting for the ultimately (regrettably) talented sneak Don Paolo to send him a signal from where he had entered. Once they had all concluded they had not seen Layton or any others, they would separate and search on their own.

Descole caught sight of Don Paolo only barely. He was hiding in a cramped, dark space. All Descole saw of the man was his nose and a thumbs down stating that he had found nothing.

It was time to split up. Resuming his crawling on the rafters, Flora and Raymond continued to follow the flow of patrol and the like. Don Paolo had the low levels to investigate, and Descole had the upper.

Suddenly there was a rush of bodies towards one side of the building and an outcry to be alert. Descole froze as guns were pulled and raised and intrinsically he knew . . . .

They were trying to rescue a ghost.

(:)

Flora and Raymond responded immediately to the outcry by ducking into a crevice within the building and hiding. They had no guns to pull. Only short, light swords carefully disguised in their trousers served as weapons. Raymond glanced to Flora and uttered, “Ready?”

She nodded, heart thumping as she looked up at the older man. Descole and Paul had their plans. They had theirs.

Theirs was to dart over, unseen, to one of the gigantic digging machines left unguarded in the frenzy of someone having escaped.

They looked around corners to check for spotters, then darted to another hidden place. They checked again, then repeated. They stayed together rather than separate. Separation was detrimental. Once by the wheel of one of the greater machines on the lower level, Raymond boosted Flora up into the seat first before she turned around and helped pull him up. Once settled in the cockpit of the machine, she turned to Raymond and asked, “Key?”

Raymond pulled his hat from his head and gave her a small smile before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a gigantic ring of keys. “All big machines of similar make and model require the exact same key. It’s just a matter,” he started fumbling through his keys, “of making a copy.” When he held one up, he pushed it into the ignition and turned it just a little to show it was the right match. “And now we wait.”

Yes. They wait. Wait for the two former master criminals to wreak havoc.

Wait for the professor.

Flora was grateful of Raymond for not chastising her for being noticeably nervous while they were safely hidden inside the machine.

(:)

Layton pushed his top hat deeper into the messenger bag he’d nicked, pulling the Targent cap down over his eyes lower. He adjusted his sleeves to hide his bruised wrists before pulling on gloves and pulling out a pistol. Never having willingly shot one of these, he held it carefully with his finger resting behind the trigger rather than on it. At least if no one was examining him too carefully, he might be able to get away without causing suspicion.

He moved at the same brisk pace as the other Targent, keeping up the pretense of searching for the escaped fugitive. As long as he blended, they would never know he was the fugitive. All he would need to do was find an exit while they still suspected him to be in this building. Once out, he would find his loved ones and take up residence with the authorities until they handled this situation with a little more care than, say, his personal allies at home. While reasonable and calm for the most part, Layton was just as capable of escaping as any of his other companions.

Or so he thought, until he heard someone declare, “Everyone remove your hats and other accessories!”

It wasn’t like him to curse. In fact, as much as Des had made him want to in the whole of his residence with him, he still found it rather vulgar. However, when hats were being ripped off of heads and glasses thrown to the ground, he whispered a quiet, “Bollocks,” before dashing behind a wall and running for cover of some sort.

Bullets sprayed and his adrenaline was, suddenly, now his only means of escape.

(:)

As hats were removed and he lost sight of Flora, Raymond, and Don Paolo, his eyes locked on one Targent member with a messenger bag and his hat still on his head. This member came dashing from one of the hidden corridors and down the walkway, gun in hand and yet not of great use.

Descole waited for the other members to show before he leapt down between the running man and his pursuers. Landing in a crouching position, the catwalk was rickety from the impact. Rickety enough that all on it (save for him) wobbled at the motions. Righting himself before everyone else and pulling his sword free, he ran forward and attacked the Targent while they were still unbalanced.

He took them out like he had never been on bedrest and gave the man, the professor, time to run.

(:)

Raymond and Flora watched the changed in the Targent members before seeing the man running. “There he is!” Flora cried, pointing to the Targent with the messenger bag. It had to be the professor. There was no other explanation as to why he was running from the others.

“Hold on, young miss,” Raymond declared as he turned the key in the ignition and the machine roared to life. Shifting gears and pushing buttons as though he was truly a master, he put the thing into motion and she stumbled backwards in spite of bracing. Seated just behind Raymond, she pulled off her hat and glasses before clinging to what she could while staying out of his way. Viewing the goings-on from the cockpit, Raymond drove toward the professor’s assailants and the large shovel apparatus (she wasn’t quite sure what other name to give it) raised in preparation to either block or demolish the catwalks on which the members were running. “Keep an eye out for the others,” Raymond assigned her the task.

She did. “Descole is there,” she pointed to a man whose suit was unmistakably recognizable. He was fighting a whole group of Targent high above them, keeping them from going after the professor. Once she had giggled at the masked man when he had told her a man who brought a knife to a gunfight could win if he was swift enough. Flora now firmly believed Descole now. She looked around for Paul and saw him on the ground nearby. He was not in a fight quite as large as Descole. No, he was picking off Targent from the shadows as they passed. “Paul is fine,” she declared, realizing there was no good way to pinpoint where he would appear next. How he was so fast, he would never tell her and she would never know. “The professor is—”

She stopped, eyes locked on the man.

Trapped.

He was trapped.

His hands up, he was cornered by the point of a gun from one member. The gun he had been holding lay useless on the ground and his jaw was locked even as he was breathing heavily.

Her eyes were honed in on the situation and she didn’t say a word. She simply pushed her way out of the cockpit and started running, sword drawn.

(:)

Layton was at the end of the line, he was certain of it. At least, he was certain until a sword pierced through the individual about to pull the trigger. He glimpsed the sword’s tip just as the Targent member slid off the blade and fell dead.

He stared ahead at the person who had stabbed the man in the back and was taken completely off guard. “F-Flora?”

Disbelief seemed to be rolling off both of them as she stared down at what she’d done. “I . . . I,” he saw her wide eyes start to brim with tears, but before she could start crying he pulled the sword from her hands. Keeping it at his side, he yanked her into a one-armed hug. “Professor—?”

“What on earth are you doing here, my girl,” he asked quickly as he squeezed the partially disguised girl against him.

“Saving you.”

He didn’t ask if Des or Paul were here. They certainly wouldn’t leave her alone. Which begged the question, “Where were you hiding?”

Still shaken, she didn’t answer. Well, she did. Her answer was to take him by the hand and pull him in the direction of the running machinery. He could only assume someone he knew was driving the thing since that seemed to have been Flora’s refuge before she had saved him. And she had saved him, though her methods were questionable. _Questionable as her tutelage_ , he thought. He certainly would never have taught her to stab a man in the back, but other gentlemen would likely have taught her to win by any means necessary when her life was on the line. Or his life.

When they got out, he had some corrections to make to her schooling.

They were climbing up the side of the machine, which was now accelerating toward a wall. It seemed they would be making their own exit. Flora jumped and shouted as someone leapt from the catwalk above and landed on the windshield.

Whereas Layton’s heart had twisted in regret and concern that Flora had been present and put in a position where she had had to fight, it stopped now as he saw that familiar masked man climbing down beside him. “What do you think you are doing?” Descole bellowed at him over the machine’s roar.

“Escaping!” Layton retorted, sounding angry. In truth, of all the people he could have seen just then this was the only one he would have actually greeted with some semblance of relief.

“How’s that working for you?” Flora climbed into the cockpit and Descole squeezed in beside Layton. In this close proximity, the relief he had felt actually started to grow into something close to happiness. “And would you really deny me the opportunity to save you, Professor?”

Layton couldn’t stop the slight grin. “With your track record of getting hurt on a mission, I would.”

Descole made a noise of disgust at the comment before declaring, “Well you shan’t be having all the fun, dear Layton. Now get it.”

He started to obey. The vehicle was still moving swiftly and they certainly didn’t want to be on its side when it went crashing through the wall. With Descole’s hand on his lower back, he went to enter.

Only to become distracted by the spray of bullets from the reformed forces of Targent.

Something hit the center of Layton’s back and . . . .

His vision blurred before going black.

The last thing he saw was his own hand reaching out for the others as he fell.


End file.
